


Lilium Candidum

by Tashilover



Category: Elementary
Genre: AU, Angels, Miscarriage, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angels said Sherlock would know the moment he saw her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This would have been soooooo much easier if the angels simply gave him a fucking name. A first name would have been fine. A last name would have been great. A physical description would have been the greatest thing in the world but  _nooooooooooooooo_. Apparently angels have to mysterious and cryptic. Usually Sherlock wouldn't have minded the mystery, but he always had a clue to go on.

The only thing the angels gave him was a vague description. Woman. Between the ages 20-40. And that was about it. Nevermind the fact that that description fit about 38% of the population of Earth, so confidence wasn't very high.

They also gave him one extra clue: He would know the moment he saw her.

As grand as Sherlock's deductive abilities were, not everything was deducible. He would still have to ask questions, inquire... seeing was not believing.

So for years he wandered. Just wandered. England, Europe, Asia, Africa, North and South America, Australia. He visited every continent at least twice, spent countless hours on the internet, searching through databases and driver license photos. He looked at so many women, all their faces blurred together in a horrible mishmash of lips, flush cheeks, and long eyelashes.

By the time he turned twenty-nine, he was done. Angels and their heavenly plans be damned, he was going to live his life the way he wanted, the way it should be, and fuck their holy mission.

They could find the Mother all on their own.

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock cannot express how much he loved New York. He could live to be a million years old and never explore every corner of this city. He surprised himself on how easy it was to fit right in, along with the other fifteen million people. Some people thought the city life was too much to handle but in reality, if you were willing to find it, time stood still in certain areas.

He wouldn't call the Brownstone one of those areas. There was a Starbucks only a couple of houses down and every morning the streets were filled with people, scrambling to get their six dollar coffee. Sherlock got his drinks for free (after saving the manager from being murdered by his ex) but the crowds was not worth it. Not even for peppermint tea.

The Brownstone itself was a beauty though. Two levels, plenty of rooms, and a large flat roof to look over the city. Rent was stupidly high but it was a price he was willing to pay.

It had been nearly seven years since Sherlock declared his life was his own. Since then, the angels have not bothered him about their stupid holy quest and Sherlock thought that was it. That they finally moved on and chose someone else.

Two days after the Summer Solstice, Sherlock heard movement in one of the rooms above him, on the second level.

The noise was quick, lasting only for a second before silencing. It sounded like heavy furniture moving, followed by a several soft thumps.

Sherlock frowned. Now the only entrance into the Brownstone was through the backdoor or the front. And nobody had come in either. So unless a thief entered through a window, which would be reckless and stupid, there should be no one else upstairs.

Sherlock didn't bother to consider bringing a weapon with him. He swiftly went up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, and opened the door to the room he heard the noise from.

"Oh God..." He hissed.

Previously, this room had been Sherlock's storage place. It used to be filled with boxes of old files, notes and photos. He had a system set up. He knew where everything was in this room.

The boxes had been removed. They were replaced with a crib. A diaper drawer. A hamper. A toy chest. The walls were repainted a soft blue, light enough to not be confused as a masculine colour. Little baby animals were painted on the walls. Above the crib hanged a mobile, dangling stars and moons and spaceships.

Sherlock immediately went to his bedroom. He was relieved to find the boxes were moved there, but now he had no room to even step in to.

He stalked back to the new 'baby' room. He went over, grabbed the mobile and tore it down. "No," he said up to the ceiling, shaking the mobile in his hand then tossing it on the floor. "I am done wasting my life on this! Go ask someone who wants this! There's a church down the street, I can give you directions. I am sure there are literally  _millions_  of people who would happily take up this cause!"

No one answered him.

"Why me?" He cried out into the silence. "Why now? What the fuck do you want from me?"

They used to answer him. Vague answers, sure, but they always answered him.

 

 

 

 

 

Now peppermint tea sounded good. He also needed some sugar in his system and perhaps a scone would help. Sherlock quickly shoved on his shoes, and stepped out of the Brownstone, not bothering to lock the door. If he was right, the Brownstone was now under the protection of the angels and they would let no thief enter.

If he was wrong, well, then he hoped the burglar steals all the baby stuff.

It was shortly after one in the afternoon. When Sherlock entered the coffee house, he was glad to see the lunch rush had died down and only a few people were inside. Melissa, one of the employees, waved at him as soon as she saw him.

"Hi, Mr. Holmes!" She said as he came over. "It's been a while since you've been here!"

"Hello, Melissa." He eyed her uniform and her earrings. "I see the Matthew finally returned his affections."

Melissa took in a breath, her cheeks turned red. She placed her hands on her face, embarrassed. "Oh, you noticed?" She said in mock hurt. She was grinning though. "It was about damn time, too."

Sherlock laughed. "Can you tell me what's fresh?"

He may have taken advantage of the 'everything is free' rule for him when he stepped back five minutes later with a large tea and a bag full of pasteries. Besides, it was more likely he was going to give most of these away to the homeless near the Brownstone.

With that in mind, he turned to leave, just as the sound of the little bell over the door rang out.

The angels gave him no names. No description. They just told him he would know when he saw her.

He saw her.

And she was already pregnant.

She wasn't that far along, perhaps only a few months, enough to show a bump. She was only a few years younger than Sherlock, of mixed Asian race and quite attractive. The fact that she was American surprised him. He thought if he ever found her, it would be in a sacred monastery somewhere in Asia, not in a coffee house in New York.

She looked around the shop, spotted a small group of women sitting at a table near the restrooms, waved and walked over to them.

Sherlock turned around so she wouldn't see him staring.

"Ooohhh," said Melissa coyly. "You like Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock snapped his head towards her. "Watson?" He repeated. Even her last name sounded incredible. "You know her?"

"Not really, no, but she comes in here enough that I know her by face."

"What's her first name?"

"Ummm... Jamie? Ginny? Jo- Joan!"

Joan Watson. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly googled 'Joan Watson.'

Melissa looked over his shoulder. "Um... are you actually googling her? That's creepy."

Sherlock slapped a five dollar bill on the counter. "You can have this if you're quiet."

She looked down at the bill. "Make it ten."

After Melissa happily strolled away, a ten dollar bill tucked in her back pocket, Sherlock went through his findings.

Beyond the occasional article of her contributions to local charities or simple interviews, there wasn't much. He checked Facebook and there were over 11,000 Joan Watsons. After that, he turned off his phone. It was fine, he preferred to do it his way anyhow.

With his his giant bag of pastries in hand, he walked right over to the table where Watson sat. The ladies saw him coming and some of them immediately went on the defense, unsure what this strange man was doing.

"Good morning, ladies," Sherlock began. "I am Sherlock Holmes. This morning I had a meeting with my company but unfortunately I was just informed, only mere minutes ago, that it was cancelled. Now I have this bag-" he lifted it up for them to see. "-of bread and cakes and only myself to have them. I wonder, would you ladies mind if I join your table and pass these pastries around?"

He half expected them to say  _no_. A strange man with a bag of sweets? Fucking creepy.

But the prospect of free food got to them and they all grinned and said, "Sure!"

With a grateful smile Sherlock dragged over an extra chair. He distributed the pastries one by one, accepting the thanks the ladies gave him. He saved Watson for last.

"What would you like?" He asked.

She shrugged goodnaturely. "Anything chocolately."

He pulled out the fattest eclair he had. When he revealed it, Watson practically squealed. "Wow! Now, don't take this the wrong way, but now I am glad your meeting got cancelled."

"No feelings are hurt," Sherlock said. He took this time to examine her body. At this angle, it wasn't obvious she was pregnant. The bump was hidden well underneath her clothes. "May I ask when you are due?"

She looked down momentarily, her hand on her stomach. He didn't see her face, but she saw how her other hand turned into a fist. She looked back up, and forced herself to smile. "Um... November."

Sherlock had always thought at least the angels would be truthful to  _her_. You cannot force a modern woman to carry a child without explaning why first. It was damn obvious Watson had woken one random day to find herself with child.

"That's wonderful," Sherlock continued happily even though on the inside, he felt sick. "Are you hoping for a girl or a boy?"

"Doesn't matter," she said, shrugging. Because she didn't  _care_. "As long as it's healthy."

And that was when Sherlock knew: she was planning to give up the child for adoption.

Sherlock knew at this point he was ignoring the rest of the ladies but he didn't care. The Mother just told him she was going to give up The Child. He couldn't help it: his mouth dropped in shock.

Watson nearly flinched from his expression. "What? What's wrong?"

Sherlock quickly backtracked, shutting his mouth and turned his face away. "Nothing," he said, pinching his eyes as if in pain. "Actually, ladies, I feel a little sick. I hope you won't feel too offended if I take my leave."

They shook their heads in sympathy but were looking at their pastries with a wary eye now. Sherlock quickly left, only to glance back for one last second, to see Watson in all her glory.

The angels were impressive to look at. With their large black wings, their millions of eyes and a voice that could shatter glass. But compare to Watson, they were as interesting as yesterday's garbage. Even in the dull lighting of the cafe, she shone brighter than the sun itself. It was beautiful and painful to look at.

Sherlock turned away and ran down the street.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He ran up the steps of the Brownstone, tore into the newly minted baby room, grabbed the crib and began destroying it. He ripped out the drawers of the dresser and flung them across the floor, then toppled the entire thing over. He took a knife to at the walls, scratching at the blue, and in one last final act of violence, he snatched up the fluffy teddy bear and pulled the head off.

"You're lucky she didn't get an abortion," he said tiredly, tossing down the teddy corpse. "You can't make her keep it. And I will not try to convince her to. It's her decision and hers alone. You can't make me. She's not yours... she's not."

He sat down on the floor heavily, all energy leaving his body.

 

 

 

 

 

Afterwards, he paid the kid across the street fifty dollars to haul all the baby stuff out of the Brownstone and to sell anything else that was salvageable. He then moved all the boxes from his room back into its original place, ignoring the cute blue colour.

He was afraid he was going to wake up the next morning to find everything had been brought back. When he walked in, the walls were still scratched and the boxes had not moved. He didn't know if he should count this as a victory or not.

 

 

 

 

 

For the next three months he did everything he could to keep Watson out of his mind. He took on extra cases, even ones he didn't find all that interesting. He studied more, practiced more, read more. He was awake for so long, he once fell asleep in the middle of a deduction of a triple homicide. He was sent home by Gregson with strict orders to rest for at least three days. Sherlock ignored him and spent those three days organizing his files and then burning 80% of them.

He was tempted to simply push Watson out of his mind and never think of her again. He knew he wouldn't. There were days in which he did not think of her, though she was always somewhere in the back of his mind, waiting to resurface at a moment's notice.

Sherlock should have known better than to pretend she didn't exist. She was going to come back into his life, one way or another.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gregson refused to leave. Sherlock kept telling him he should go, reminding him of his duties to other people and perhaps finish off his paperwork, that there was no reason for him to be here. Gregson told Sherlock to shut up.

Sherlock scowled and cradled his arm closer to his chest. He dared not move his wrist, afraid to jostle his broken bone. It wasn't the pain he feared, it was the horrible sensation of the snapped bone scraping together. He hated that.

Sherlock sat on the medical bed while Gregson paced easily in the small hospital room, waiting for the doctor with the x-rays. "I don't know what's up with you."

Sherlock didn't move to show he heard him. Gregson carried on anyways. "What happened? In the past few months you went from... slightly socially acceptable to downright-"

"Insane?" Sherlock prompted.

"I was going to go with  _destructive_ , but yes, let's go with insane." He crossed his arms, turning to face Sherlock fully. Sherlock avoided his eyes. "What's going on with you? I've never seen you like this before."

"Then maybe you should avert your eyes."

"Sherlock!" Gregson said affronted. "I'm serious, I'm worried about you. Talk to me, tell me what's going on."

What could Sherlock say? That he finally had the chance to fulfill his mission in life, the mission given to him when he was  _nine_ , and because of modern day ethics, he threw it away? That because he was adamant of following those morals, morals he was fucking  _proud_  of, he may have just prevented the second enlightenment? Even now, as he sat there, cradling his stupid broken arm, he had no idea if he did the right thing?

Maybe he should say that, just to see how Gregson would react. But before Sherlock could even open his mouth to reply, the door opened and Joan Watson stepped through.

Sherlock nearly choked. Seeing her for the second time in his life was just as dramatic as the first. She was the light of day against the black, her soul shining so brightly it was like she was the only star in the night sky.

Immediately his eyes went to her stomach.

Watson shouldn't even be here right now. She should be on maternity leave. And yet, as Sherlock stared at her midsection, there was no bump. The shirt she wore was form fitting and though Sherlock could see the curve of a stomach, it did not look like one that gave birth recently.

Sherlock felt sick. Did she abort? No... when he met her, it was too late to.

The realization hit him like bricks falling out of the sky. Out of all the solutions Sherlock could foresee, this one wasn't on his list. He thought the angels would prevent such a thing. He thought wrong.

"You miscarried."

Watson jerked as if slapped. "What did you say?" She asked.

"Nothing," Gregson said softly, stepping forward and putting himself between her and Sherlock. "He's in pain, don't listen to him."

"I don't understand," Sherlock continued, totally oblivious to Gregson's commands to shut up. "The angels wouldn't have let this happened."

"Sherlock, for God's sake shut up!"

Watson dropped her clipboard. Without another word, she left the room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Four hours later Sherlock was back the Brownstone, his arm plastered, and hearing the biggest, most elaborate talk from Gregson.

"-and seriously, how  _dare_  you say something like that to a woman. To anybody! I mean it Sherlock, you've always been brash and blunt but never  _cruel_. What hell did she do to deserve that? You know what? I don't care. Nothing she did ever deserved that. Your actions were unacceptable today and you're damn lucky I'm a cop otherwise I would have slugged you across your face the moment you said that. I swear, Sherlock..."

To an outside perspective, it looked like Sherlock was taking the talk to heart. His head was down, his fingers were caressing his plastered arm gingerly. He was frowning so deeply, it looked like he aged twenty years.

In truth, Sherlock wasn't even listening to Gregson for the past ten minutes. Sherlock was deep in his own thoughts, trying to make sense of it all.

Was this all his fault? Because Sherlock refused to step up and act as the Guardian he was destined to be, the angels canceled the Birth?

Did something happen to Joan that Sherlock could have prevented? Was she attacked?

Or... or was this all just happenstance? A lot of women miscarry their first child. The body wasn't ready yet, the stress was too much. Maybe later, in another year or so, Watson would carry another child.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes," Sherlock lied. "I was in great deal of pain, but that doesn't excuse my actions. I'll be sure to formally apologize to Dr. Watson tomorrow."

Gregson narrowed his eyes at him, unsure of his sincerity. He let it go regardless. "See that you do. I have to get back to the station. And I  _will_  be checking on to see if you made that apology."

Sherlock watched him leave. The moment the door closed shut, Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh and sunk further into his chair bonelessly. He was so tired.

The doorbell rang. Sherlock made a face and ignored it. Gregson made his little speech, Sherlock didn't want to see him so soon. When the doorbell rang again, Sherlock kicked out annoyed, went to his feet and stomped to the front door.

It wasn't Gregson on the other side. It was Watson.

"May I come in?"

Sherlock moved, gesturing with his broken arm she could. Watson walked in cautiously, both hands on her purse, legs twitching as if expecting to run. Sherlock made a conscious effort to keep a respectable distance so she wouldn't feel threatened.

The living room chairs were covered in papers, and Sherlock scrambled to move them. "I apologize for the mess," he said, tossing the papers into a corner, out of the way. "I was... not expecting company. Would you like some tea?"

"Um... yes, please."

Sherlock went into the kitchen, grimacing when he realized the dishes were not washed and he didn't have any clean cups. He went into overdrive, quickly grabbing the nearest kettle and two cups, washing them furiously. He then shoved the clean kettle onto the heated stove. The damp bottom sizzled.

Back in the living room, Watson was looking over his wall of thoughts. The wall full of crime scenes, gory photos of corpses, articles on various people, and pins linking them all.

"I am not a serial killer!" Sherlock announced loudly. "I am a detective, working with the NYPD."

It was a gamble telling her he was not a killer. It could reassure her. Or it could actually make her consider him to be a killer. Either way, Sherlock was fucked.

"I see," Watson said, still looking over the photos thoughtfully. "And that's why you were with that officer this morning."

Sherlock could have kissed her. Not that many people would have noticed Gregson was a an officer without a badge present. Goodness, she had potential beyond this.

"Please sit," Sherlock indicated to the chairs. "You have questions. I am willing to answer anything."

"How's your arm?"

Sherlock stared. That was not what he was expecting.

"I only ask because I felt bad for running out on you this morning," Watson said, her shoulders cinching in shame. "I shouldn't have run away like that."

"It's um... it's fine. I should be the apologetic one. I shouldn't have said such a personal thing. Please forgive me."

She didn't accept nor reject his apology. Instead, she asked, "How did you know I miscarried?"

"Easy," he said. "When I met you four months ago, you were already well past the time to abort. You should be on your eighth or nine month right now, but you're not. Thus, it was a miscarry."

"Oh..." Watson's eyes pinched. "Wait, when did you meet me?"

Well, fuck. "I am not a stalker!" Sherlock announced. "I just happened to meet you one day, a few months back."

"And you remembered me after all this time?"

I would remember you from this life to the next. "I... do."

"Why?" Watson's voice was getting a slight panic. "Back at the hospital, you said  _angels_. What did you mean?"

Sherlock considered not telling her. For 1.3 seconds.

"When I was four I was visited by an angel. I can't tell you whom, because they never gave me a name. He told me that I have a great destiny, that I was born to protect the  _Mother_. They told she would be the one to give birth to the next great King of our world and it was my job to find her, and keep all evils from her. I spent  _years_  of my life looking for her, endless hours and many sleepless nights. I never found her. As I got older I began questioning my part in this role. I thought I was throwing away my life on something that was never going to come and one day in my late twenties, I left it all behind. All my research, all my plans, and I told the angels to go fuck themselves. I wanted my own life, to live out my own destiny. I spent a few years living out my life, feeling like I was missing something, but I have ignored it. In some ways, I was happy. Then one day, out of the blue, the angels visited me again and I simply thought they were being persistent. Out of anger, I took a walk to clear my head, to get a cup of tea.

And that's when I met  _you_."

Watson took in a sharp breath.

Sherlock readied himself for her departure. Any normal, sane person would leave right and get away from this obviously crazed person talking about angels and destiny.

Watson didn't. She didn't move from her seat, made no signs that she wanted to. For all of his deductive prowess, Sherlock had no idea what she was feeling or thinking. So he waited.

Finally, "I see..."

Sherlock nearly choked.

"So you're saying," Watson continued slowly. "That this woman is supposedly the next Virgin Mary?"

"The next Mother. The angels never said anything about  _virgin_."

Watson nodded as if that was a natural thing to hear on an everyday basis.

"You're taking this all so very well," Sherlock said. "I must admit, I half expected you to run away screaming."

Watson chuckled lightly. "A part of me still wants to. But... I guess it's because in these past few months, I've seen some things I cannot explain."

"Things?"

Watson hesitated. Years of skepticism and logical thinking were at war here, and Sherlock could see Watson wanting to speak, yet afraid of what was going to come out of her mouth. "I'm a doctor," she finally said. "I did all my tests to be sure I'm not... sick. Cat scans, blood samples, the work. As far as I could tell, I am a perfectly, healthy, young woman. And yet over a year ago, I started seeing people like..."

Her hands made a motion of an unexplained feeling. "Like they were  _monsters_ ," she said. "My neighbor, Mr. Rogers-"

"You have a neighbor named  _Mr. Rogers_?"

Watson gave him an unimpressive look. Sherlock held up his hands in defeat.

"Mr. Rogers, the guy who lives next to me," she continued after a second. "I noticed that... he had blood around his mouth."

"Split lip?"

"No, more like, he just  _devoured the heart of his enemy_. I pointed it out to him and he acted like he didn't know what I was talking about. Nobody saw the blood but me."

Sherlock felt cold. He thought as the Guardian, he would only have to protect the Mother from real life dangers, like serial murders, falling rocks and such. To know Watson was in danger from actual  _demons_  made Sherlock's stomach churn.

"As the days went on, more and more blood kept appearing on Mr. Rogers," Watson said, her voice getting a little more distressed. "On his face, his hands, by the end of the month, he was practically soaked in blood. So out of curiosity, I did some research."

"What kind of research?"

"Background stuff. I googled him. Nothing fancy."

"And?"

"At first, I found nothing damning. His Facebook, his Twitter, but none of his statuses were out of place. Then, I found an article written about him. The newspaper had  _just_  put up all of its back issues online and that's where I found Mr. Rogers. Apparently, back in the sixties, he was under suspect for killing a woman. But there was no strong evidence of his involvement and they let him go. According to the article, the woman had _her throat ripped out."_

Not even Sherlock had ever come across such things. The angels were the closest supernatural creatures he has ever encountered. He didn't understand why Watson was blessed with foresight when he was the one deigned to protect her.

"It wasn't just Mr. Rogers," Watson said. "I saw people with black eyes. People with teeth so sharp, it was like they stepped off a horror movie set. And when I got pregnant... it felt like they were all  _looking_  at me."

"What happened?" Sherlock demanded. Fuck, fuck, did someone hurt her? Could he have prevented this? "Did someone attack you?"

Watson shook her head. "I was not attacked. My... immune system mistook the baby as a foreign invader."

The blow was just as harsh if she had said someone stabbed her in the belly. He thought the angels would have foreseen such an event. There was no way Sherlock could have protected her from  _that_. Nobody could.

Both of them were quiet for a long time, unsure of what to say next.

Finally, when Sherlock couldn't stand it no longer, he asked, "Did you even want it? The baby, I mean."

Watson opened her mouth, ready to answer. She then pulled back, bit her lip, and hesitantly asked, "You said angels, right? As in, heaven? God? Gabriel and all that jazz?"

"Yes..."

"Then it's probably best I keep my opinions to myself," Watson said, her eyes glancing up.

Sherlock wanted to scream. To tell her her life was her own, regardless who was listening in. She should never be afraid of expressing them, especially not to douchebag angles who forced this upon her.

"So now what happens?" Watson asked. Her voice cracked a little. "I'm not pregnant anymore."

"I don't know," Sherlock said truthfully. He looked up to the ceiling, waiting for a sign, for something to show them the way. "Something will pop up, I'm sure."

Watson nodded. She glanced over to Sherlock's board of criminals, pointed and asked, "So what's the story behind this?"

Sherlock grinned. He stood up, held out a hand for her to take and said, "Why don't I show you?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get the conclusion out by Christmas, but I couldn't! So here's the first half. Enjoy, lovelies.

Sherlock perhaps believed in Father Christmas a tad longer than any average child should have. Why wouldn't he? If angels were real, then the idea of Santa Clause being real was not that farfetched an idea. Up till the age of twelve, Sherlock placed out a plate of sweets, a glass of milk, and set up a camera system to catch the sonnabitch on film.

Every Christmas morning when it came to look over the evidence, Sherlock was angry to find Mycroft had eaten the sweets and drank the milk. When Sherlock complained to his mother about this, she would say, "Sherlock, Santa did come. Look at the presents he left you under the tree!"

"Those gifts are from you," Sherlock said, pouting. "I want the gift from Santa!"

"It sounds like you're expecting something specific, love."

"I am."

"Well, why don't you tell me? Then maybe next year Santa will bring it for you."

Sherlock hesitated, unsure if he should share this with his mother. The angels didn't explicitly say it was a secret, but they did emphasize the need for discreetness. "I want..." Sherlock started. "I want to know who the Mother is."

"The mother?" His mum said. "Is she a character in a book?"

"No, she's... nevermind."

It was the only gift he wanted for Christmas every year, the only one he asked for when he prayed at night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It looked like they really were going to have a white Christmas.

As much as Sherlock loved New York, even he could admit the winters here were the absolute worse. Every December it was guarantee he was going to get sick. Either he'd catch the flu, or some idiot would sneeze on him. No matter how many layers he wore, the wind passed through him, stabbing him in the chest with the stinging cold. It always felt like his ears and fingers and nose was going to fall off.

When the temperature went down, so did the crimes, giving Sherlock more free time than he knew what to do with it. In the past when he had long moments to himself, he spent his days searching through databases looking for the Mother.

Now that he found her, he needed something else to do.

Watson sat wearily on the stairs, one of her pillows clutched to her chest. She leaned her head against her pillow, fighting the urge to fall asleep right there. She asked, "Sherlock, why are you using power tools to cut human bones in half?"

Sherlock stepped back from his pile of cut bones. He turned to face her. A trail of white dust floated off his clothes. "Study," he said, pushing up his goggles. "Say I am a murderer. I just killed a man and now I need to rid of his body. I have at my disposal a series of house tools. Knives, axes, and your common brand power tools. Depending on which brand, their setting, their blade, the speed, the way it _cuts_ , I may be able to determine which brand and which tool was used during a murder in 1993."

"Hmmm..." Watson hummed. "Is there also a reason why you're choosing to do this four in the morning?"

"No."

There was a pause.

"Oh," Sherlock said. He awkwardly patted his clothes and dust sprinkled off of him. "Perhaps I shall continue this experiment later."

"Appreciate it." Watson yawned and stood up from the stairs. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Technically it's 'good morning.'"

Watson hummed in response, trudging tiredly up the steps. Sherlock watched her go.

Two years ago he didn't know her name. He knew she existed somewhere out in the world. It was destiny Sherlock were to meet her some day, and yet it still surprised him when he finally did.

Neither Sherlock nor Watson fulfilled their roles given to them in this universe and he was okay with that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock gave out a small grunt when a snowflake landed right in his eye. Sometimes he wondered if Mother Nature was truly out there, fucking with him. It would explain quite a few things. He blinked rapidly, giving the sky a brief glance. Despite his irritation, the falling snow was certainly beautiful. A white Christmas was never a constant in England, but here in New York, it was practically a guarantee.

"No ID, no wallet on the guy," Detective Bell said, leading Sherlock and Watson through the police tape. "Judging from his clothes, we're guessing he's homeless. But according to the businesses around here, they've never seen this guy before."

"A murdered homeless man in New York is not uncommon," Sherlock said. "What makes this murder so unique you felt you needed Watson and I?"

"The cause of death is unknown as the paramedics were unable to find any wounds on him, and yet... Well, take a look."

The snow was barely covering the ground, and with every step, dirt and black snow gathered at the front of Sherlock's boots. Already he could feel the coldness seeping in through the leather. He stepped forward, rounding the parked cars.

Slumped against the steps of an old record album store was the victim. The man was black, and Sherlock estimated him to be at least fifty-five years old, judging from his graying hair and wrinkles. Like Bell said, the man appeared to be homless as every single piece of clothing he wore was well worn and faded. One arm was draped across his belly while the other was stretched out to the side. Overall it looked like the man simply fell asleep on the steps.

Except he was also _drenched_ in blood.

It was as if someone dumped an entire tub's worth of blood on him. It pooled down the stairs like a macabre waterfall, melting the snow around the man's body, and the excess ran off into the street, draining into the sewer.

Watson gave out a horrified gasp, slapping a hand over her mouth. Without another word, she left the scene.

Bell raised an eyebrow. "I thought she was over her crime scene heebie-jeebies."

"As did I," Sherlock muttered, looking back in Watson's direction. He turned back to the corpse. "I suppose this was a bit much for her. You said there were no obvious wounds?"

"The paramedics found no stab wounds, no bullet holes, no cut arteries, and no bruises."

"Strange indeed. I guess we'll have to wait for that autopsy report. In the meantime..."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ten minutes later Sherlock joined Watson by the police cruisers. She was staring off into the distance, rubbing her arms for warmth. Her long black hair was shiny with unmelted snowflakes.

Sherlock came up next to her and said, "You didn't miss much. Detective Bell was right, there were no bovious signs of trauma that could have lead to this man's death. Our victim didn't have a wallet on him or money, and the amount of blood on him destroyed any other physical evidence I could've used to help identify him. We'll have to wait for the autopsy report."

Watson was quiet.

Sherlock frowned. "Are you alright?"

"...you don't see it?"

"See?" Sherlock gave the corpse a quick secondary glance. There were a lot more bloody footprints in the snow. It was an unvoidable consequence of having somany people around. He turned back and shook his head, unable to see what Watson meant. "What am I missing?"

"The wings," Watson said, turning to face him. "The blacken, charred wings."

_What?_

Sherlock's head snapped back towards the corpse again. The police were getting ready to transfer the corpse into a body bag, but there were no wings to be seen.

He didn't understand. If Watson said was right, and she was most likely was, then that was an _angel_ laying dead on those stairs.

"I thought you can see them too," Watson said.

"Only when they reveal themselves to me, which they haven't for years. If that dead man back there was truly an angel then-"

Sherlock stopped in mid-sentence. He glanced around the area, watching the usual scene of police and medical personnel walking around. Though Detetive Bell was here as well as many recognizable officers, Sherlock felt the prickle of danger on the back of his neck. He had his baton on his person, but what use was a night stick against something that kill an angel?

"Let's get you back to the Brownstone," Sherlock said to Watson.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was an idiot. A fool. A goddamn dumb-ass mother fucker. He thought after Watson's miscarriage their roles as Protector and Mother were over. He should've known there was no such thing as _rest_ for people like them.

The moment they got into the Brownstone, Sherlock immediately locked the front door. He then proceeded to inspect all the windows, the other doors, all the while throwing looks upwards to the ceiling, expecting the angels to give a sign. Once he was done, Sherlock came back downstairs to find Watson sitting on the couch. She was leaning on her arm, her eyes drawn to the floor as she contemplated. Sherlock took the chair across from her.

This wasn't something they talked about: their connection to the prophecy of the coming King. Once Sherlock realized Watson held the potential of becoming a consulting detective herself, the other world sort of disappeared into the the background. Sherlock was willing to answer any question she might've had, but out of respect for her and the sensitivity surrounding her miscarriage, he never brought up the subject. Neither did she.

"So what does this mean?" Watson asked.

"I wish I could give you an answer, but truthfully I have no idea. I thought we were done with this."

Watson suddenly slapped a hand over her stomach. " _I'm not pregnant, am I?"_

 _Would_ the angels try again? Sherlock surged to his feet and ran for the supply closet. "I have pregnancy tests!"

"WHY do you have pregnancy tests?" Watson asked in a suspicious tone as Sherlock dragged out a bag.

"Experimentation," he said. The bag contained about thirty different brands and he pulled them out, one by one, onto the living room table. "There's a few internet rumours stating home pregnancy tests can detect cancer and other diseases in men. I occasionally test them on myself- not for cancer, mind you. Mostly to test which ones were indeed inaccurate, and... for fun. But I can ssure you, I didn't buy them because I believe you would get pregnant again."

"Alright," said Watson. She looked over the brands, considering them. She grabbed three off the table. "These are the most accurate. I'll be right back."

The next ten minutes were the longest in Sherlock's life. He paced in the living room, back and forth, back and forth, staring holes towards the bathroom. He was sweating, his heart was beating, and he realized in that moment, he was deadly afraid. What if Watson was pregnant again? Watson's body had already rejected the first Child. There was a chance it could reject the second.

There was a chance Watson could abort it.

By the time Watson walked out of the bathroom, Sherlock was shaking. She held up the three used tests.

"Negative," she said. "I'm not pregnant."


End file.
